Duet (9 page)

As Aillil gazed out into the darkness, his thoughts strayed to the Englishman up in the tower, eyes tightly closed, face serene while playing the violin. He wondered how the man looked when coupling. Hand wrapped around bared flesh, Aillil stroked languidly, his imagination supplying a willing partner. Duncan had loved to ride him, controlling the motion and the speed. Now the flame-haired teacher hovered above him in his fantasy, smile wicked and loose hair cascading in ringlets over white shoulders.

In his mind, Malcolm’s body squeezed his cock with each forceful thrust, and he fought back moans when the inevitable trembling began low in his belly. For a moment his hand stilled, squeezing almost painfully tight. He came, loosing his cries into the night. Thick milky spatters appeared on the stone floor.

His dream Malcolm gave him a satisfied smile. Another reason for the teacher’s sudden arrival in the Highlands whispered into Aillil’s consciousness. The man might be escaping a lover—an unpleasant thought, for Aillil was starting to consider the alluring Englishman as his own.

He sighed. If he never planned to act on that wanting, why shouldn’t Malcolm have a lover, providing the man practiced discretion, particularly if the lover was a clansman? Aillil fought against a spike of jealousy. He must keep a safe distance and maintain control, focusing on the day he’d become laird and restore the honor of Clan Callaghan.

Later, however, he drifted off to sleep to the image of auburn-lashed lids closed tightly over eyes the color of a summer meadow, and red hair falling softly against creamy skin.

Seven

F
ROM
his perch on the barn’s gable, Aillil watched the “hounds’” fruitless search for their quarry in the meadow some ways off. He asked his fellow fox, “You’re an Englishman. When you hear of Scotland, what comes to mind?”

After a moment’s silence, Malcolm answered, “I think of a beautiful, untamed land and of brave men who’d fight and die for their freedom.”

“And I suppose the English…,” Aillil began, preparing to defend his home and countrymen. He stopped midsentence when the words sank in. What? Malcolm didn’t think of ignorant brutes who didn’t deserve to live, like most
Sassenach
seemed to?

Malcolm shifted nervously under Aillil’s scrutiny, the barest tip of a pink tongue peeking out from between his lips. The answer rang of truth—however, not the
whole
truth. Finally Malcolm confessed, “Although you’ll probably tease me mercilessly, I think of courageous men in kilts, swinging their broadswords at their enemies. I think of strength and honor and a people who wouldn’t sell out their own loved ones for money or prestige.”

Oh. Not the expected answer, proving how little the teacher knew of his current employer. “You don’t think of lawless barbarians who don’t deserve the land upon which we live?”

Malcolm’s long nose wrinkled in disgust. “No!” he spat. “Why would I think such a thing?”

Why, indeed
. “What do you know of our ways and traditions?” All his life, Aillil had believed the English were evil, greedy beings who wanted nothing more than to take Scotland from its rightful owners for their own gain.

A mass of curls partially obscured Malcolm’s face. He slowly raised his head, a zealous gleam in his eyes. “You wear kilts, play bagpipes, and speak Gaelic. I’ve also heard tales of those heroic men, William Wallace and Robert the Bruce. Your people have a colorful history, as old as time itself.”

Aillil regarded him thoughtfully. “You honestly don’t know, do you?”

“Know what?”

“By English decree, we’re forbidden to wear kilts, play pipes, carry arms, and speak our ancestral language. All the things you think of are no more.”

Malcolm turned away, staring off into the distance. “I knew of it, and don’t personally agree.”

Little in life surprised Aillil; Malcolm’s attitude certainly did. “Why not? Why do you care?”

Several times in the past Aillil had witnessed Malcolm’s anger: Fergus’s attack on Niall, Aillil knocking him to the ground during their last game of Fox and Hounds, and when Aillil accused him of improper acts with the boys. Never had Aillil thought to see that fierce temper aroused for his own people.

“Because it’s wrong!” Malcolm exclaimed, face now mottled red by rage, not embarrassment. “To take away an entire society’s beliefs and customs is beyond cruel.”

Aillil stared at Malcolm as if he’d lost his mind. Here was an Englishman, an enemy, righteously indignant of the wrong done to the Scots. If he weren’t hearing this for himself, he wouldn’t believe.

“The ways of different peoples are unique and should be protected.” Malcolm used the same tone he did for lecturing his students. “English influence has pervaded many lands. In time, we’ll all be the same, losing the most precious things each have to offer.”

“What things?’

“Well, music for one.” Malcolm’s normally sedate demeanor shattered completely. He spoke with great conviction. Wild gesturing with his hands punctuated his words. “The tunes I play on my violin come from many sources—German, Russian, English, Italian, and now I’ve added Scottish to my repertoire. Each is special in its own way. To lose the diversity, the seasoning for the stew that unique points of view add, would be a travesty.”

“And you don’t want our lands?” Didn’t the man covet acreage for himself?

All color fled Malcolm’s face. “Good heavens, no! What would I want with your lands? Not that they’re not fine lands, mind you. I am a third son, never expecting to own an estate and never training for the responsibility. My father’s title and lands, thankfully, fall to my oldest brother Rupert, along with the obligation to produce heirs.”

Heirs, another sore spot for Aillil. Why he felt compelled to bare his soul to the Englishman, he’d never know. “I’d be more than happy to live out my days a bachelor, naming Niall my successor. Father won’t hear of it. I’m expected to marry one day and carry on the family line.”

“You’ve no wish to wed?” Malcolm blurted, a bit too loudly. He slapped a hand over his mouth, darting a quick glance toward the fields. The boys crept ever closer, but didn’t appear to have overheard.

“Nay. My wishes matter little to my father.” Already having said more than wise, Aillil felt no inclination to explain why he could never find contentment with a woman. “I should count myself blessed that he hasn’t arranged a match already.” Thinking of who his father might intend made him want to run and hide. None of the man’s acquaintances had very appealing daughters, not that Aillil’s opinion counted for much once Eoghan made up his mind. Some of their sons, on the other hand….

The conversation lagged, Aillil brooding over his future and watching the boys wander ever closer to their position.

Malcolm broke the silence. “It’s a pity, really.”

Aillil still mulled over their last topic, visualizing some horrifying future bride. He shot his companion a sharp look. “What’s a pity?”

Staring out over the fields, voice wistful, Malcolm declared, “I’ve seen you in your kilts, but I’ll never hear the bagpipes play or the native Scottish tongue. When I was small, my mother told me stories of Scotland, and I’ve always wanted to come here, to experience these wondrous things for myself. Now I’ll never know them.”

An excited, “Over here! I’ve found them!” from down below interrupted their talk.

Resigned, Aillil grasped the roof beam, preparing to climb down. In Gaelic, he said, “If you want these things you shall have them, my little fox.” In English, he added, “It would seem that we’ve been treed.”

“Y
E
FOUND
ay lassie, hae ye?” Old Maeve asked, circling Aillil and running observant eyes over his neatened appearance. He ran his hand over his freshly trimmed beard, ignoring her question. He should have known better than stopping by after a visit to his barber. The village healer always read too much into everything.

“’Ye gaun tae ay lot o’ effort. Maun be ay lassie,” she prodded. He knew her well enough to realize that she wouldn’t relent without receiving an answer.

“Nay, Auld Mammy,” he replied. “Why does desiring a good grooming require a lassie’s influence?”

The woman who’d known him since birth smiled knowingly and chortled. “Aye, abit time ye gae courtin’.”

Courting? Was that what he was doing? Yes, he’d like to bed the Englishman, that didn’t mean he desired to win him, did it? For what end? An image appeared in his mind of Malcolm, stretched out, waiting.

Aillil snorted. How absurd! He wasn’t courting Malcolm; it had merely been a long time since his last tryst with Duncan. It would be the same with any available man. Wouldn’t it?

Thankfully, Old Maeve changed the subject, filling him in on village gossip.

“Well, I should be going,” he said when a group of children appeared, clamoring for the woman’s attention.

It wasn’t like her not to get the last word in, and before he could leave, she imparted, “’Tis be th’ ane fer ye, I ken.”

He ignored the comment. She often spoke of things she couldn’t know. If she was truly all-seeing, she’d understand already that no lass could ever be for him.

The day was temperate and he’d nothing pressing to attend to. A visit to the loch for a bath would be nice. The old woman’s words came back to him: “
About time you went courting.
”

Utterly ridiculous! The decision to bathe and trim his hair and beard had absolutely nothing to do with a certain flame-haired Englishman. Nothing at all.

M
ALCOLM
leaned back against rough tree bark, a sharp contrast to the soft bed of grass he sat upon. A cool breeze tugged at his hair. He’d allowed the boys to talk him into interrupting their studies to spend time outside on this pleasant summer day. He granted the reward, extremely pleased with their progress. After a morning spent playing Foxes and Hounds, which the foxes lost spectacularly, they’d spent the afternoon reading. It was such lovely weather and, after much pleading, he’d finally agreed to a walk to the loch. He’d last seen the twins chasing each other through the tall grass.

Watching the four younger Callaghans brought to mind the older one. For all his bluster and supposed hatred of the English, Aillil was intelligent and seemed to be trying to curb his uncivilized tendencies, at least around the boys. He was also a natural with the violin. Malcolm snickered, wondering if Aillil realized he’d been learning English compositions.

Niall glanced up from his book at Malcolm’s laugh. He smiled, turning back to his task. Of course, Malcolm’s most promising pupil chose to spend all free time reading, Rory nestled against his side, repeating the words spoken aloud. Listening to the pleasant lilt of Niall’s voice made Malcolm’s eyelids begin to droop.

Near to dozing, a frightened scream jerked him awake. On his feet in an instant, he ran with all his might toward the anguished cry of, “Master Byerly! Help!”

“Master Byerly, wait!” Niall shouted. The warning came too late to be heeded.

Dughall stood on the bank of the loch, frantically waving his arms and yelling, pointing at his twin foundering in the water.

With no thought for himself or the fact that he couldn’t swim, Malcolm dove into the muddy depths, frantic to reach Dughlas in time. The moment he hit the surface, he sank like a stone, the frigid water closing overhead. Kicking frantically, one foot connected with something solid and he pushed against it. He crested the surface, sputtering and gasping, then plunged back into the icy current.

Ignoring the searing pain in this chest, thoughts only for Dughlas, he opened his eyes in the murk, determined to rescue his student. This time when he kicked, he found nothing to push against. His lungs burned, and he fought not to breathe. Panicked now, he flailed desperately. Something hard and heavy landed on his neck. Yanked abruptly upward, he sucked in a mouthful of sweet, fresh air, never caring how his miraculous surfacing occurred. That is, until he came face to face with the murderous expression on Aillil’s face. An unyielding arm encircled his chest, dragging him to the shore. After delivering Malcolm to shallow water, his savior regarded him critically for a moment, angry glare softening slightly before snapping back into place. Aillil stared over Malcolm’s head to where the boys stood. None met their brother’s searing gaze. The twins scuffed their bare toes in the grass.

“I tried to stop him!” Niall pleaded. Rory eased behind his older brother until a thatch of honey-colored hair was all that could be seen of him.

“Look at me!” Aillil demanded, turning an evil eye on the dripping Dughlas, who rounded on his twin.

They pointed accusing fingers at each other. “He told me to!” they shouted in unison.

“Do you realize Malcolm might have drowned?” Aillil’s voice roared like thunder. His words registered.
Malcolm, he called me Malcolm!

The truth hit. The twins played a prank! Niall’s warning suddenly made sense. Malcolm nearly drowned trying to save a lad who was having a joke at his expense! Oh, there would be extra assignments in someone’s near future! Of course, first he’d have to wait his turn. Their older brother was laying down the law far better than Eoghan had on that first day at the castle.